


Christmas Jumpers

by RedShiloh



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas fic, F/M, Fluff, M/M, awful christmas jumpers, bond doesn't do secret santa, no fucks were given by q, offic christmas party, there's always a game of charades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedShiloh/pseuds/RedShiloh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to Mission00Q prompt on tumblr: The office has a Christmas party.</p><p>  <i>It’s the MI6 Christmas party.</i></p><p>  <i>Bond has never been to one before, usually because he's been out on the field.</i></p><p>  <i>He’s beginning to regret breaking the streak.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Jumpers

It’s the MI6 Christmas party.

Bond has never been to one before, usually because he's been out on the field.

He’s beginning to regret breaking the streak.

Music is playing on speakers brought up specially from Q Branch. The singer bleats on about giving his heart away for Christmas and Bond finds himself wishing he’d just shut up and die already if that’s the case.

Bond’s standing on the edges of the room, a glass of scotch in hand, his second glass of the night. He would very much like to be a good few levels drunker, but he’s trying to exercise restraint.

The room is ensconced with decorations. Little paper Santa Clauses and reindeer are pinned to the walls and tinsel is dripping from the ceiling.

Close by, a group is gathered playing a game of Charades, of all things. It’s Tanner’s go and he’s making a pig’s ear of his title, pinching the air with the fingers of one hand and spinning the other hand round and round in a clockwise motion. The crowd gathered around him take turns shouting out words but Eve’s voice rings loudest amongst them.

“Circle!” Eve shouts. “Point! Oh, I don’t know, Tanner you’re terrible at this.”

“Turn of the screw,” Bond mutters quietly to himself.

“Down… spinning… Spin down!” Eve laughs. “Christ, Tanner. What on earth are you doing?”

A young woman, Bond thinks he recognises her from Q Branch shouts out the answer and Tanner looks far too relieved that his go is finally over. He takes a seat, red faced and slightly winded. The young woman picks out a slip of paper from the bowl, unfolds it and by the look on her face, Bond can tell she’s not happy with her title.

“Book, 6 words,” Eve voices the necessary steps that begin every turn. She pulls a face, frowning around the group. “Oh Fran I’m sorry honey who put a six word title in there? You monsters!”

“One flew over the cuckoo’s nest,” Bond mutters. It’s a prerequisite of charades that title shows up at least once. Eight letters and it would have been Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café.

“Why don’t you join in?” A voice asks. Bond recognises it immediately, Q.

“Not my thing,” Bond says, turning his head. He stops as soon as he sees Q. “What on earth are you wearing?”

Q stands there in what has to be the most ridiculous woolen jumper Bond has ever seen. It’s dark green with a family of polar bears on the front, each of them has a black pom-pom for a nose and they’re sipping hot chocolate from red snowflake mugs.

Q doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed, in fact he looks quite smug. “A present from my sister. She’s always gone to great lengths to find the ugliest sweaters and then posts them to me. Last year it was Kittens playing musical instruments. When you pressed on the piano it would play Jingle Bells. In comparison this one is rather tame.”

“You realise you don’t actually have to wear them?”

Smiling, Q leans back against the wall beside Bond, he’s holding a paper plate filled with sausage rolls and mini quiches and other finger foods that’s expected at these types of parties. Q offers the plate to Bond who declines, preferring to stick with what he knows, scotch.

“How are you enjoying the festivities?” Q asks softly and they fall into the comfortable familiarity of talking without looking at each other. To an outside spectator they would just look like two men leaning against a wall, not saying a word.

“It’s festive,” Bond says.

Q hums and pops a mini Quiche in his mouth.

Bond watches as Eve detaches herself from the charade group, (Fran’s go had passed and the new victim looks considerably frantic as she waggles her fingers in the air) Eve winks at them with a smile as she passes by, drifting towards the drinks table. As always, she looks effortlessly stunning in a simple black cocktail dress trimmed with red velvet.

“Oh for goodness sake, Charlotte’s web!” Q shouts suddenly. The charade group lets out a unanimous groan of realisation. The girl sits down, beaming at Q.

At Bond’s look, Q shrugs. “What?” he says. “I couldn’t very well let her suffer all night, could I?”

“Come on, Q!” Tanner shouts. “Get over here, then.”

“No no, thank you.” Q waves them away. “You take my turn, I’m fine.”

“You guess it, you take a go, that’s the rules. Now get over here!”

“Immediately regretting my decision,” Q mutters to Bond. He clasps his hand over Bond’s arm, his thin fingers wrapping around Bond’s wrist in a surprisingly iron grip.

“Don’t drag me into this, you made your bed, now go lie in it alone.”

For a brief second, Q’s eyes spark with innuendo. “Oh but it’s so much more fun with two,” he says. “If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.”

Q drags Bond to the group. Bond allows himself to be dragged only for the reason that he was getting tired of standing. Q goes to the bowl filled with prompts and Bond takes the empty seat left by Eve beside Tanner and Fran. He can sit; it doesn’t mean he’s going to take part. At all.

“Right then, let’s see…” Q delves his hand into the bowl and rustles around with gusto. He draws a slip of paper out and Bond has the distinct impression that Q is enjoying every second of this. Q’s eyebrows lift up high as he reads his prompt.

“Whoever wrote this is bloody cruel.”

“No talking!” Tanner says. Q gives him his most sarcastic look.

Q holds his hands out palms up and then two fingers, book, two words. One finger, first word.

He shapes a sphere with his hands, expanding it to indicate immense size. He then bends over with his arms splayed out likes he’s carrying a massive weight.

 _Atlas Shrugged_ , Bond thinks almost immediately, but he’s damned if he’ll say it out loud.

The rest of the group seem a long way from guessing it, they’re grasping the concept of a sphere, some are even shouting ‘globe’ and ‘earth’ but none have yet made the connection of the carrier of the world.

Q catches Bond’s eye and he  _knows_  that Bond knows. His expression is daring.  _Go on then_ , it says,  _don’t be chicken_.

“Atlas Shrugged,” Bond has never been one to pass up a dare. Q takes the seat that Bond vacates and Bond goes to the bowl of words. He picks out the topmost slip of paper, unravels it, and smiles. This should be easy. He walks to the wall and points at one of the reindeer and then points to his own nose.

“Rudolph the red nosed reindeer!” Shouts Fran. Her face drops when she realises she is right and it’s now her go.

“That was hardly fair,” Q mutters as Bond takes Fran’s vacated spot. “I get Ayn Rand and you get a great bloody picture on the wall?”

* * *

 

At some point in the evening, Q drifts away and Bond finds himself sitting by the drinks table talking to, or rather propping up, a very intoxicated Tanner. Bond’s not sure how many drinks Tanner has knocked back, but the pitcher of tequila sunrise is all but gone and as far as he can tell, Tanner is the only one in the room who likes tequila sunrise.

Bond’s had a good few glasses of Scotch himself and his mind is beginning to take on that pleasant fuzz that comes from just the right level of drunk. Bond wouldn’t say that he is enjoying the party any more, but he’s feeling a good deal more relaxed.

Eve claps her hands and stands up from where she has been chatting intently with M. She looks around until she has everyone’s attention. She announces that it is now time for Secret Santa and walks over to a long table at the head of the room; it is covered by a large sheet. She removes it to reveal an array of brightly wrapped gifts in varying sizes, each one with a name tag attached. Tanner comes to life at the call for gifts and strides over to the table, muttering something about how it better not be bloody socks again.

Bond sips his scotch and watches the frantic activity of gifts being unwrapped. He’s never taken part in the sentiments, half the faces in the crowd are complete strangers to him and he wouldn’t have the first cue what to buy even if he withdrew the name of someone familiar.

Q emerges from the crowd, his lurid green jumper visible a good few seconds before he is. He’s holding a gift wrapped in red and gold paper.

“Aren’t you going to try and find yours?”

“I didn’t take part.”

“Ah.” Q unwraps his gift with meticulous care. Unsurprisingly, he is the type of person to carefully peel the tape so as not to tear the paper. A small bag filled with letters and words falls into his lap. “It’s a magnetised word game,” Q explains when he catches Bond looking. “It’s because of that damned mug… last year I received scrabble boxers. I’m not sure who thought I would ever wear them, but there you go.”

Bond thinks about Q walking around with aforementioned boxers, which soon leads to him picturing Q walking around sans boxers.

“Whose name did you have?” Bond asks as a means of distracting himself.

“Tanner.” Q smiles. Just as he says it, Tanner lets out a cry of indignation.

“Bloody socks!” Tanner cries. “Again!”

“I had him last year too,” Q says.

* * *

 

It’s late in the evening. Most people have left already having had their fill of Christmas cheer and alcohol, but a few stragglers remain.

Bond hasn’t left for two reasons, firstly because he’s discovered M’s stash of good whiskey that had been secreted away behind the gifts table. Secondly, more honestly, because he has nowhere better to be. It’s the eve before Christmas eve and he’s got no plans whatsoever. It feels strange not being away on a mission at this time of year. He feels somewhat lost.

Across the room Eve and M are sitting in comfortable silence. M’s face softens considerably when he is around Eve. Bond wonders how long it will be before the two of them go public. Surely he can’t be the only one who sees it.

Tanner has sobered up from the tequila sunrise and is rubbing his head and grizzling to Fran who is polishing off the last of the sherry trifle.

Q and his green jumper are nowhere in sight and Bond wonders if maybe he’s already left. He feels somewhat disappointed by this.

The doors open and Q steps in. He crosses the room to sit beside Bond, rubbing his arms briskly. Snowflakes are melting in his hair and the tip of his nose is red from cold.

“Where’ve you been?”

Q ignores the question, his glasses have fogged up and he removes them, polishing them on the sleeve of his jumper.

“I think I might head home,” he says. “But first, I found this.”

Q hands Bond a small gift wrapped in green paper. It’s roughly the size of his palm and when he shakes it, something rattles around inside.

“I don’t do secret santa.”

“Regardless.” Q shrugs. “It has your name on it.”

Sure enough, ‘James Bond’ is scrawled on the label in neat penmanship.

“You might as well open it.”

Bond’s curiosity is piqued, he tears the paper, ignoring Q’s grunt of disapproval, and opens the box. Inside is a handful of money. Bond empties it into his hand, frowning, who on earth would give him…

“Twenty eight pounds and fifty pence,” Q says. “Huh, that’s strange. It’s exactly the right amount for taxi fare to mine.”

Q reveals no tells. His face remains placid and he stares back at Bond innocently.

“Well,” Bond says and he drops the money back in the box. “It looks like my secret santa is trying to tell me something.”

“Indeed,” Q says. “Shall I get our coats?”


End file.
